


push

by maledict



Category: GOT7
Genre: Crossdressing, Genderplay, M/M, Noona Kink?, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledict/pseuds/maledict
Summary: “You’ll have to call me noona,” Bambam said, looking down at his phone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As always, nallari is a terrible enabler. ♡

 

“You’ll have to call me noona,” Bambam said, looking down at his phone, and Yugyeom’s head snapped up, and he stared at him and said, stupidly, “What?”

Bambam’s eyes flicked up, annoyed. “Are you even listening?”

Yugyeom wasn't—he'd tuned out sometime after Bambam had said _I'm bored_ and _Let’s go out this week_ and _But I don't want to be recognized, that's so annoying_ and vague, concentrated mumbling about how he was going to get around it. Apparently, in between all of that, he’d somehow made up his mind to go clubbing in a dress.

“But we're only a few months apart,” Yugyeom protested weakly, as if that was the real problem here; he still wasn’t quite sure what he’d heard.

“I’m still older than you,” Bambam pointed out.

“It’s different! And you're a guy!”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna be trying to pass as a girl,” said Bambam slowly. “You wouldn’t use _hyung_ with a girl.”

“I don’t use hyung with you anyway, we’re friends,” Yugyeom replied, but he was beginning to feel like it didn’t matter what he said; Bambam’s eyes were glittering the way they always did when he was _going_ to get his way, and Yugyeom was only delaying the inevitable by splitting hairs.

Bambam grinned. “There’s a first time for everything, right?”

“Can't I just call you Bambam-ah?”

“Nope,” he said. “You can't use my real name, and I don’t want a fake one. Just use noona. It’s easier.”

Yugyeom slumped back onto the bed and covered his face with his hands. “I don't get you,” he said, muffled. “Who does this kind of thing for fun?”

Bambam pointed to himself. Then he flashed Yugyeom a lazy victory sign, and went back to browsing a shopping app on his phone.

Yugyeom let his hands fall to his sides. He stared up at the ceiling. After a moment, he blinked and said, “What about me? Aren't I going to be recognized?”

“I don't know,” said Bambam. “Maybe? Unless you want to…”

“No!” Yugyeom said immediately. “No.”

“Then just, you know, wear a hat, or a mask and sunglasses,” said Bambam flippantly, shrugging a shoulder. “Most of our fans won’t be out on a weeknight. You'll be fine.”

And that was how Yugyeom found himself, one week later: in a hotel room in Thailand, in the middle of the night, after a long day of promotions—twisting his hands together in his lap, trying not to focus to hard on the way his stomach was writhing itself into knots. Waiting, nervously, for Bambam to finish putting on what he’d ordered online in the bathroom.

It took an hour and a half. When Bambam finally stepped out, Yugyeom almost didn't recognize him.

It wasn’t manufactured, like the other times; the dress he'd ordered didn’t look like a costume at all. It was short, black, and showed a lot of bare, toned leg—the arms were some kind of sheer, see-through material. Yugyeom’s eyes traveled up, from Bambam’s ankles to his slender thighs, past the short hem, and landed squarely on the gentle curve of his chest.

He swallowed. “Are you—are you wearing a bra?”

Bambam cupped his hands over the swell of material. “I’m supposed to be a girl, remember? I can't look flat-chested.”

“Right,” said Yugyeom faintly, trying not to imagine it—what kind of bra it was, if it was cute, or—or Bambam struggling to put it on, reaching behind himself to fasten the clasps, the sharp blades of his shoulders flexing underneath his golden skin.

The wig he’d ordered was a long black lace front, which looked as real and as natural as his own hair. He was wearing heavy makeup, too: a dark smokey eye and some kind of nude, glistening lip stain. He’d put on heeled ankle boots that lifted him up to Yugyeom’s height, maybe higher, and made his legs look even _longer_ , impossibly.

“So?” Bambam turned and smoothed his hands down his sides, bending a leg flirtatiously. “How do I look?”

“Really good,” Yugyeom answered, maybe too honestly. His face felt hot. Bambam had always tried the hardest out of all of them for their girl group stages, but this was—something else. “Like a girl, I mean. Really, it’s… it’s really weird.”

Bambam grinned, wide and unashamed. “Perfect.”

He walked— _swayed_ , really, the heels did something to his gait that made Yugyeom’s stomach flip uncomfortably—over to the desk opposite the bed, where he kept the travel box that held his jewelry. He bent over to slip something silver over his head, and it caused both the long, wavy hair of his wig to cascade down over neck, and the hem of the dress to ride up dangerously high on the backs of his thighs.

Yugyeom’s throat clamped shut, his mouth going suddenly dry. He had a disorienting flash of walking up behind Bambam, a palm to his hip, inching the fabric up. A slow reveal. But then Bambam turned, rearranging the way the wig fell on his shoulders, and Yugyeom’s eyes snapped up to watch the elegant flutter of his wrist, the way he put his hand on his hip. He’d softened his gestures, too. Even the way he moved.

Yugyeom shook himself and glanced away, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Bambam looked back at him. He was standing by the door. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Yugyeom said. He willed the heat to leave his cheeks, stood, and grabbed his wallet from the bedside table. He’d already changed into something that might be suitable for a club: black jeans, ripped at the thighs. A subtly patterned silk shirt he thought Bambam might like. But he was barefaced, and hadn’t bothered to style his hair; it was lying messily against his forehead, flat and dark. He wanted to look normal. Someone had to, next to Bambam.

Just as they were about to leave, he said, “Listen, are you really sure about this? We could get into a lot of trouble.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Bambam said, mouth curling. “That’s what makes it fun.”

Yugyeom gave him a look, and Bambam wheedled, “I _promise_. Nobody else has to know. Jaebum-hyung is already asleep. Don’t you want to get out for a while?”

“I do, but…”

Normally, he wouldn't have batted an eyelash, but this was different. It was _weird_.

But he couldn’t say no. Yugyeom would never leave Bambam to do something this monumentally stupid by himself, and Bambam knew it.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “Let’s do it.”

Bambam smiled, eyes curving in delight. It hit Yugyeom right in the chest. He turned away, covered his face with a mask and a pair of sunglasses, and the both of them slipped out of their hotel room, careful not to make noise in case Youngjae was still awake and playing games in Jaebum’s room next door. They took the elevator down and hurried out of a side entrance next to the pool, adjacent to the lot, and were suddenly out on their own in the middle of Bangkok.

It was the thrill of diving into dark waters, unknown and unexplored. He stuck close to Bambam as he hailed them a taxi; watched him as he had a short, rapid conversation with the driver. The streetlights caught on his cheekbones, lingered there. Their thighs were touching. That wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but—

Yugyeom didn’t know how to stop looking at him. “Where are we going?”

“I told him to take us to a popular nightclub,” said Bambam. “He said he knows a good place.”

“And you trust him?”

Bambam poked him in the ribs, rolling his eyes. “I’m paying him, aren’t I?”

The club was crowded and dark and loud. Colorful, intermittent flashing lights made it difficult to see anything properly, and the pounding beat made it difficult to think. On the far wall, behind the stage, bright, complex fractals whirled, throwing the DJ booth into stark silhouette. Yugyeom took off his sunglasses and face mask and tucked them into his back pocket, feeling suddenly exposed—but the atmosphere was chaotic enough that he didn’t think anyone knew, or noticed, or cared, who he was.

Maybe he was just being paranoid. It was hard not to be, with Bambam beside him, looking like that.

At first glance, nobody would mistake him for a man. Or at a second glance, either. Only people who knew him would catch on, but even then, it was difficult: the wig and the makeup did a lot to transform the shape of his face, and in a dark club like this, with so many moving shadows and milling bodies and sweeping beams of light, it would be near impossible to tell it was him.

People might not recognize him for him, but he was still—he was _Bambam._

It seemed crazier by the minute that Yugyeom had actually _agreed_ to this: it was insane that they were here, risking everything. He faltered, lagging. Bambam must have sensed his hesitation, because he turned and took his hand, tugging him toward the bar. “Let’s get something to drink first,” he said, loudly, over the music. “My treat.”

He let Bambam lead him over, slipping between a crowd of clamoring bodies; the heat was coming off of them in waves, cloying and thick. Adrenaline was beginning to build, slowly, right beneath his sternum. A little ball of it, coalescing with every thump of the bass.

Bambam ordered them two glasses of SongSam. He was pitching his voice a little higher, Yugyeom realized, as he spoke to the bartender—high enough to sound plausibly feminine. With the lilting, tonal quality of Thai, he was carrying it off pretty well.

Yugyeom tried to ignore it.

Their drinks arrived, and they toasted and knocked them back, and Yugyeom stared down at the bar for a solid minute, until he could feel the alcohol settle, staining the lining of his stomach. But when he looked up again, Bambam had turned away; someone was on his other side, and Bambam was leaning in to talk with him, hip cocked. His eyes were glittering again, the same look from before—determination, or something like it. A coy smile was pulling at his lips.

They were speaking animatedly in Thai, and somehow, for some reason, Yugyeom hated it. Irritation swept through him, itched at his skin. He narrowed his eyes.

Not because he couldn’t understand, but because he recognized the tone. The warmth of it.

Bambam was _flirting._

“Ba—um, noona,” he said, touching Bambam’s elbow. “I want to dance.”

“Then go dance,” said Bambam, over his shoulder.

“With _you_ ,” said Yugyeom pointedly, but Bambam just waved him off, saying, “Later.”

The guy—shorter than Bambam, but handsome, with a catlike mouth—smiled insincerely at him, resting one elbow on the bar; then his eyes slid back onto Bambam’s face, an obvious dismissal.

Yugyeom glared at him.

Unwilling to just _leave_ , he played with the straw in his drink, glowering down at the bartop. After a moment, he snuck another glance up at them both; Bambam had moved a little closer, leaning invitingly into the guy’s personal space. He was completely ignoring Yugyeom’s existence. Caught up in—whatever.

_Fine_ , Yugyeom thought. Fine. It was fine. If Bambam wanted to _act_ like a girl too, he could. He could do whatever he wanted; Yugyeom wasn’t going to stop him. He could flirt with everyone here for all Yugyeom cared. He could.

Yugyeom threw back the rest of his drink and left the empty glass on the counter, wading through the wave of people just coming off the dance floor, all of them smelling like sweat and liquor, their teeth flashing bright as they smiled, exhilarated. The alcohol wasn’t enough to get him feeling anything other than a mild buzz, but it sizzled in his veins as he threaded through the crowd. Then the song changed, and Yugyeom sank into the hopping mass just as it began to writhe again.

Nothing seemed as bad when he danced. There wasn't enough room to freestyle, but he found a good rhythm and flowed with it, matching the wave of bodies around him. It didn't matter if he couldn't speak Thai. Dance was a universal language, and that, he understood.

He forgot about Bambam. He forgot he wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn't drunk, but he was beginning to feel like it; someone had backed up into him and was rolling themselves against him, just like everyone else on the dance floor, partnered up and twisting together like snakes. He slid a hand to her waist without thinking, started a nice, slow grind. He encouraged her to circle her hips, just like he was moving his; her ass pushed up against his dick on every undulation. The intermittent pulses of pressure felt like heaven.

They danced like that for a while, until the track began to transition into another, and he looked up and saw another woman—glowering at him, for some reason. He blinked, and the light changed from purple to a bright glowy blue, and Yugyeom realized it was Bambam, staring at him with something like a sneer curling on his face. Then he understood: it wasn't _him_ Bambam was sneering at.

Abruptly, Bambam walked forward. His hand shot out and caught his wrist. “Yugyeom-ah,” he said loudly, voice still pitched up high, muffled by the volume of the music. “It's my turn.”

Yugyeom wanted to snatch his hand away, but didn't. His dance partner shot Bambam a nasty look, still pressed up against him, and said something clipped in Thai. Bambam bit out a reply, and the girl stepped away from them both with an offended, dirty look, and melted back into the crowd.

Then Yugyeom _did_ snatch his hand away, annoyed. “That wasn't very nice.”

Bambam scoffed. “You don’t even know what I said.”

“I know it wasn't nice.”

Yugyeom tried to turn, but Bambam quickly stepped forward and hooked his arms around Yugyeom’s neck, locking him into place. It brought his face up close. Enough to speak without having to shout.

“I’m sorry,” Bambam said. “I’m sorry, okay? I wanna dance now. So let's dance.”

“Ba—”

“Noona,” Bambam corrected him immediately.

“Noona,” Yugyeom repeated slowly, and Bambam smiled.

The DJ transitioned songs, shifting into a languorous, downtempo beat. They both automatically adjusted to it, but Bambam didn’t put space between them. Yugyeom suddenly wasn’t sure to do with hands. They hovered for a moment, restless, and then found Bambam’s sharp hips anyway, molding against the expensive, silky fabric. So close, Yugyeom realized belatedly that Bambam was wearing circle lenses; his eyes looked huge and liquid, a shade of brown so deep it seemed almost purple.

“I thought you were having drinks with that guy,” Yugyeom said, trying not to sound as petulant as he felt.

Bambam shrugged. “He was boring.”

Yugyeom felt an odd surge of satisfaction at that, but bit his lip to hide it.

“So,” he said, “What _did_ you say?”

“What?”

“To that girl.”

“Oh,” Bambam said. He cast his gaze down and away, looking almost—guilty. “Nothing.”

“Come on,” Yugyeom tried, low and cajoling. “You can tell me.”

But instead of answering, Bambam just looked at him. He blinked, slow, assessing. Something in the air shifted.

Yugyeom was suddenly hyper-aware of their proximity, the lack of space between them. Bambam leaned close enough that their chests bumped: another warm, obvious point of contact, right against his sternum. Bambam’s arms around his neck instantaneously felt suffocating. Like a noose, or a leash.

Involuntarily, Yugyeom slid his hands up to Bambam’s ribs. He felt dizzy.

“Yugyeom-ah,” Bambam said. His warm breath gusted over Yugyeom’s face, humid with the tang of alcohol. “Be honest with me.”

“Always,” said Yugyeom.

“Am I pretty?”

Yugyeom didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, immediately earnest. “So pretty. The prettiest.”

Bambam glanced up at him from underneath his eyelashes, tilting his head. His lips looked so full. Yugyeom’s chest ached; desire swelled in his gut. His thumbs brushed the underside of the bra, the foreign ridge of it. So apparent under the sleek material of the dress.

“Then don’t look at anyone else,” Bambam said. “Okay? Only me.”

Yugyeom swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Bambam’s eyes lowered. He turned deliberately in Yugyeom’s arms, shoulder-blades against Yugyeom’s chest; he lifted his arm to cup the back of Yugyeom’s neck, arching his spine, showing his throat. The bare slope of it.

Yugyeom’s heart thudded, sending his blood crashing. His hands settled at back on Bambam’s slim waist, nearly spanning it. Before he knew what he was doing, he was guiding him back, until they were pressed flush together, squeezed spine-to-ribs in the mass of writhing bodies.

Bambam’s fingernails scraped the short hairs at his nape. Yugyeom shivered, pressing his nose into the sweep of Bambam’s wig, lips brushing against his ear.

The urge to kiss him there, right on the shell of it, rose like a wave. To brush the hair away and nuzzle his throat. Bambam began to undulate against him in smooth, controlled movements, following the steady bassline; Yugyeom exhaled shakily over his earlobe, closing his eyes. He matched the fluid motion of Bambam’s hips, circling with him, keeping perfect time. The relentless, persistent beat of the music flooded his head, drowning out everything else; the feeling of Bambam against him, the smell of his—his _perfume_ , something expensive, spicy and sweetly floral, clung to Yugyeom’s nose, the back of his throat.

Bambam’s other hand covered his, fingertips warm and reassuring. He curled them over Yugyeom’s wrist and moved his hand up, across his stomach, his ribs, until it cupped the small, false curve of his chest.

Yugyeom’s stomach flipped. Something tight and hot settled heavily at the bottom of it. He understood, suddenly, what Bambam wanted. He wanted to be someone else, someone older, more experienced, the kind of noona who would sneak out to go clubbing with her dongsaeng just for the hell of it, because it was _fun_.

He wanted Yugyeom to play along.

So Yugyeom squeezed, helpless to do anything else. It felt real, like there was something there. Inserts, maybe. Slowly, experimentally, he rubbed the edge of his thumb over where a nipple would be, and Bambam hummed as if he could _feel_ it, caressing the inside of his wrist in encouragement.

For a moment, all Yugyeom could do was sway with him, overwhelmed by the intimacy, the trust. Raw, sharp-edged lust built steadily at the base of his spine. Spiraled down, pooled there.

He gave in, nosing against Bambam’s temple, and bit gently at his ear.

Bambam tilted his head. His hair slid away from his neck. Yugyeom let his hand trail back down, slow, inexorable, past Bambam’s ribs, across his flat stomach. He felt Bambam’s breath hitch in his lungs as he splayed his palm low on his abdomen, the tips of his fingers just brushing against the swell of something hard there, between his legs.

Bambam made a choked noise and bucked into the touch. Yugyeom’s fingers curled around him one by one, gently cupping him through the fabric of the dress.

Bambam’s throat worked as he swallowed. The silky hair of his wig brushed against Yugyeom’s cheek. He was getting harder in his hand—lifting the hem of the dress a bit, away from his body. The people around them jostled and thrashed, but Yugyeom didn’t care. He didn’t care if they saw. His other hand found the top of Bambam’s bare thigh, slid the dress up. Just enough to feel underneath.

He couldn’t really see over Bambam’s shoulder, in the dark where their bodies met, but he could feel the way the panties barely contained him, the way the tip of his cock was dampening the fabric, sticking to him.

The breath felt punched out of him. His mouth went dry. “Noona,” he said, hushed. “Are you—getting wet?”

Without waiting for an answer, he touched the damp spot tenderly, rubbing the very tip. Bambam made a high noise in his throat and squeezed his thighs together. He gripped Yugyeom’s wrist, but didn’t move him away.

“You _are_ wet,” Yugyeom said, unable to keep the awe from creeping into his voice. “Because—because of me?”

“Yes,” Bambam whined. His cock twitched in Yugyeom’s hand.

Fuck. Yugyeom licked his lips, dazed.

“Is this okay?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Bambam. His grip on Yugyeom’s wrist tightened. Yugyeom squeezed him gently in return, experimental, and Bambam’s hips jerked forward, almost out of his hold. Yugyeom let him go and grabbed them, drawing him firmly back into place; he ground greedily up against Bambam’s ass, nosing against his warm cheekbone. Bambam opened his legs for him, just enough that Yugyeom could wedge the bulge of his erection right up between his cheeks, against the soft curve of his balls, crushing the fabric against private, sweaty skin.

“ _Noona_ ,” he moaned. He didn’t even have to act; he couldn’t think.

Bambam shuddered. He circled his hips, bounced a little, dragging firmly against Yugyeom’s cock. Yugyeom hissed, hips stuttering, and said, “Do you—what do you want? I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Wanna feel you,” Bambam said, voice cracking slightly. His dress rode up dangerously high in the back. “Don’t care how, I just—”

It was Yugyeom’s turn to shudder. He wasn’t sure how far Bambam wanted to take the fantasy, how deep he wanted to go, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Has noona been waiting for me for a long time?”

Bambam nodded. “Uh-huh,” he breathed. He hitched his hips back again, hard, wiggling his ass, and Yugyeom mashed himself back against the clothed flesh, desperate. He could probably come like this—just from the feeling, the pressure, half-hidden by everyone else, a wall of shadowed bodies, blood running searing hot. He could come, and nobody else would know but them.

“How long?” Yugyeom whispered, lips brushing against the shell of Bambam’s ear.

“Years.”

Yugyeom couldn’t tell if it was a real admission, but the idea of it—that Bambam might have wanted him for so long—made something in his chest pinch vice-tight. His cock ached, pressed up against him. His breath caught in his lungs and hissed unsteadily back out over Bambam’s neck, layered with a frayed, quiet moan.

Suddenly, Bambam spun around to face him. He leaned in. Yugyeom could feel him, dick hard, pressing into his hipbone, right against the leather of his belt. Immediately, his hands settled back on Bambam’s waist, steadying him, and then slid further down, until he was cupping his ass. He squeezed, getting his hands up underneath the dress, kneading at the heated flesh, and Bambam moaned outright—loud, shameless. His mouth was so close.

Yugyeom’s fingertips teased at the edges of his panties. Slipped just underneath. He leaned forward.

For the first time, their mouths met. It was sweet, almost gentle. Dreamlike. Bambam’s eyes were shimmering when he drew back, lidded and unfocused. Yugyeom blinked slowly at him, and then his gaze dropped hungrily back to Bambam’s lips, faintly wet. They glistened strangely under the colored lights.

“Noona,” he said, hoarse. “I want—”

“Me too,” Bambam whispered. He grabbed Yugyeom’s hand. “Right now.”

They wove their way through the writhing throng of bodies to the bathrooms at the back of the club. There was no line for the men’s room—Yugyeom hurriedly took the lead, tugging Bambam forward, nearly stumbling with the urgency of it. Two figures were standing at the urinals, clearly drunk, but they didn’t look up as they entered; Yugyeom rushed them both down to the farthest stall before they could be seen, fumbling the lock closed behind them.

Bambam put his back to the door, hands on Yugyeom’s chest, and pulled him in for a bruising kiss.

The music was muted here, but still loud, omnipresent. They wouldn’t be heard if they kept quiet. Hopefully, nobody would notice the second pair of heeled feet bracketing Yugyeom’s shoes just underneath the stall. But Yugyeom was beyond caring, anyway—he felt even drunker now, adrenaline crashing through him, making him reckless. He didn’t care if people heard. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wanted them to. He wanted them to know what they couldn’t have.

Yugyeom hitched Bambam’s leg up on his hip, hand curled under his thigh.

Bambam whined low in his throat as their cocks bumped together. Yugyeom stopped, adjusted himself, lined them up. He started rocking his hips forward in tiny little thrusts, darting forward to lick at Bambam’s lips. “I want,” he said again, in between sloppy, stolen kisses. The stall door rattled with each push. “I—in the hotel room, I—”

Bambam arched against him. “Tell me,” he said.

“I thought about—when you bent over, the dress, I wondered if I could—”

He swallowed, unable to finish. Instead, he pulled back, chest heaving.

“What,” Bambam whispered. “What did you want?”

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Yugyeom slid down to his knees on the grimy bathroom floor.

He had no idea what he was doing, but he was so caught up in the role that it didn’t matter. He looked up at Bambam, hands resting on the tops of his thighs, fingertips just brushing the edge of his dress, imploringly vulnerable. “Can I suck your—your clit, noona? Please?”

Bambam stared down at him, wide-eyed with hazy shock; then he nodded frantically, hair sweeping down against his collarbones. The flush had spread down his throat, past the neckline of his dress. Slowly, he scrunched up the hem, inch by torturous inch, revealing his swollen cock, straining obscenely against the dampened fabric of his panties.

Yugyeom’s eyes dropped to it, nostrils flaring. Heat throbbed in his groin. It was so pretty. Big enough that the bulbous head was peeking out from one side, flushed ruddy pink; it twitched as Yugyeom stared at it, pulsing against Bambam’s inner thigh.

His tongue felt leaden in his mouth. Saliva pooled in the hollows of his cheeks.

He’d seen Bambam naked before, so many times, but—not like this.

“Yugyeom,” whispered Bambam. His other hand brushed the hair from Yugyeom’s sweaty forehead, as if to ask: _are you sure?_

Yugyeom licked at his bottom lip. He couldn't count the number of times he'd touched himself to the thought of lapping at soft, pink folds, head bent between pair of spread thighs. Getting his lips and chin all wet as some faceless girl convulsed above him. But he wanted _this_ more than he'd ever wanted that. He wanted Bambam’s cock in his mouth, pushing at his throat; wanted to taste him, to feel him heavy and wet on his tongue. He wanted to make Bambam come. _He_ wanted to be the one to do it, and nobody else.

“Bambam,” Yugyeom said, cracked and low, and this time, Bambam didn’t correct him.

He hooked his fingers into the fabric and determinedly tugged the panties to one side. Bambam’s cock curved up, hard and shiny-red, slick at the tip. Tentatively, Yugyeom touched it, trailing a finger up the vein, before wrapping his hand curiously around the velvety-hot flesh; leaning in, he bumped his mouth against the head. Sticky pre-come smeared over his lips. Bambam’s breath went rough and shaky. He held onto Yugyeom’s head and tilted his hips forward, nudging himself back against the seam of his lips.

“Please,” he whispered, almost inaudible.

Yugyeom looked up at him, reverential, and opened his mouth. Bambam slid inside.

He tasted like skin tasted—skin and sweat and the faint sweet scent of new, clean clothing. The thick musk of arousal. Yugyeom had no plan, no technique, but Bambam didn’t seem to care; he was staring down at Yugyeom with his mouth parted, eyes glassy, hooded and dark. Like he’d let Yugyeom do whatever he wanted. However he wanted to do it.

Yugyeom flattened his tongue and began to move back and forth, remembering how he liked it, when he touched himself—how he liked to imagine it, the hot wet feel of it just under the sensitive head, fantasizing, alone, the heat of someone’s mouth, the tip of their tongue like the ridge of his finger, relentless.

“Fuck, oh f-fuck,” Bambam moaned, his thighs trembling, taut under Yugyeom’s palms. “Oh, _oh_ —oh my god—”

It was a heady feeling, a weirdly intense wave of arousal. He was acutely aware of the way his own cock rubbed against his inseam every time he bobbed his head, lips stretching to take Bambam in. The pressure felt excruciatingly good. Bambam tried to thrust, but Yugyeom pushed him back, held his slender hips in place against the cold stall door. It was almost hypnotic, the way Bambam felt, sliding smoothly in and out, tapping at his soft palate—and powerful, too, how Yugyeom could make him shake so badly, just by fluttering his tongue, by suckling at his swollen cockhead like a lollipop.

Voices came into the bathroom, loud and slurry and raucous. The stall door next to them slammed unexpectedly, and Yugyeom’s heart leapt into his throat.

He glanced up; Bambam was biting at his bottom lip, eyebrows drawn up like he was in pain, or about to cry. His cock pulsed in Yugyeom’s mouth, leaking viscous fluid against the root of his tongue.

Yugyeom breathed in through his nose. His whole body felt like it was on fire, on high alert. He dug his fingers into the meat of Bambam’s thighs, urging him to stay still.

Slowly, he sank down, drawing him as far back into his throat as he could without gagging.

Bambam whimpered loudly, and then froze.

The voices had quieted. For a moment, all Yugyeom could hear was the music, pounding away, the thump of it like a muffled heartbeat, vibrating up through his knees to his groin. His senses were overwhelmed, clogged with sensation. All he could taste— _feel_ —was Bambam, shivering uncontrollably underneath his touch, trying to stay quiet. He was biting at the heel of his hand, his muscles coiled whip-tight. Waiting.

But Yugyeom couldn’t wait. He dropped one of his hands to rub at himself through his jeans, grinding the heel of his palm into the base of his dick, unable to stop the suppressed, desperate groan as electric pleasure shot up his spine. Slowly, he started to bob his head again, experimental, matching the beat of the muffled music, the rhythm of his own hand.

The voices were starting up again, and Bambam’s eyes fluttered in relief. The toilet in the stall next to them flushed, and the occupant left, and Bambam started writhing underneath Yugyeom’s grip, trying to fuck wildly into his mouth, frantic. Now that the immediate danger was gone, raw need was crashing violently back in; Bambam was right on the edge, struggling. Yugyeom could tell he was nearly there.

“Yugyeomie,” Bambam gasped, vibrating underneath his touch. His fingers were wound tight in Yugyeom’s hair, grasping urgently at his skull. “I’m—can I—I wanna come in your mouth, can I—”

Yugyeom looked up at him, took him in as far as he could go, and gave a little nod.

Bambam spasmed and came with a shivering sob. Hot liquid flooded Yugyeom’s mouth. He tried to swallow, but coughed instead; the come leaked onto his tongue, bitter and thick, and dribbled out, down his chin.

Bambam stared down at him, dazed, chest heaving rabbit-quick at the sight.

“Gyeom-ah,” he whimpered, and tugged insistently at Yugyeom’s hair.

Yugyeom climbed to his feet, half-pulled up, and Bambam kissed him hungrily—tasting himself, swiping his own come away with the pink flat of his tongue. He licked at Yugyeom’s lips, sloppy, uncaring, and Yugyeom pressed into him, caging him against the stall door, as close as he could get. Bambam whined softly and tried to arch away, still sensitive, but Yugyeom chased him. He _needed_ it, needed to grind his cock against Bambam’s sharp hipbone, to ride that sweet, rough drag. He was so close—so, _so_ fucking close, just a little more friction, and—

As if he could tell, Bambam reached down between them to cup him through the denim, gripping hard, massaging his dick in short, tight little tugs. Yugyeom moaned high in his throat, bucking helplessly into the touch.

“You wanna come, right?” Bambam murmured, right against his lips. “Are you gonna come?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Yugyeom sobbed out; he buried his face in Bambam’s neck, seized up, and spilled over with a full-body shudder, coating the inside of his underwear with pulses of hot, sticky come.

Bambam ran his other hand through his hair, murmuring sweetly as Yugyeom twitched. He kissed his face—mapping out each mole, between his eyebrows, under his eye, his cheek. Yugyeom panted, clutching at Bambam like he might run away.

“Bammie,” he whispered.

Bambam kissed him on the mouth this time, smiling, exhilarated. Yugyeom smiled back, tentative, and brushed a wayward strand of hair from Bambam’s flushed cheek. Then he shifted away and grimaced, feeling the warm wetness beginning to cool against his skin.

He unzipped his jeans gingerly, peeling the wet fabric away from his softening dick. He fumbled some toilet paper from the roll and tried to clean up the mess inside; the material was still uncomfortably damp, clinging to his flesh. Bambam helped him, wadding up the used tissue and throwing it into the toilet bowl behind him.

“Thanks,” Yugyeom murmured, cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment. Bambam grinned at him, devious.

“Next time,” he said, re-zipping Yugyeom’s jeans for him, “Come where noona can see it, okay?”

A fresh thrill of arousal trickled down his spine at the words, and Bambam must have seen it in his eyes, because he laughed quietly and tapped at Yugyeom’s dry lips. Yugyeom licked them instinctively, catching his tongue on the salty pad of Bambam’s forefinger.

“Next time,” Yugyeom repeated, failing to hide a smile, and Bambam nodded. He dropped his hand to bump against Yugyeom’s palm, shy, almost, and threaded their fingers together.

“Come on,” Bambam said.

He tugged on Yugyeom’s hand, undoing the stall lock, and they went out together.

 

 


End file.
